Not Quite Life
by dances with irrelevancy
Summary: Hanging around the edges of crowds in sticky-floored clubs, he meets Micky's eyes so often he feels like a night hasn't really happened unless it's corroborated by the amused twist of Micky's mouth. Mike/Micky.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Mike moves to California and begins living the not-quite life of his dreams.

**Pairing:** Mike/Micky

**Warnings: **I don't think there's anything warning-worthy here.

**Notes: **Show-verse, obviously :) Um. I really wanted to write a Mike/Micky story?

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Monkees - this is done purely for fun. Please don't sue :)

* * *

When Mike tells his mother, she laughs, just once – this drought-dry chuckle that sounds like a car with a run-down battery. Then she looks down at her fingers for a moment before pushing herself to her feet. She walks over to the window and just stares out, while he studies the line of her back and rounded shoulders.

"California," she repeats, and he nods – not that she can see it. She laughs that juddering laugh again, and shakes her head. Then she straightens her shoulders, and turns around. Her mouth is a little twisted at the corners. "You'll do as you like, of course, but...it's – not quite what I was thinking of, for you." She sighs, like she's letting go of something – a familiar sound.

_California, _he thinks determinedly, hugging the word tight to his chest, keeping it safe from disappointment and guilt.

* * *

She doesn't say anything else after that. He's told her and she doesn't approve, but that's all there is to it. She tucks her unhappiness away, folds it all up, neat as one of his shirts, and proceeds with life as normal.

It makes him feel ten times worse than if she ranted or raved. Even if they're hot with anger or knotted tight with hurt, words are something to hold on to. Silence severs the connection completely, leaving both of them standing on opposite sides of a bridgeless river.

Other people talk to him though. Like his Uncle Robert, who says, belligerently, "You're a smart boy. I've always said that you were smart."

He _has_ said that before. Though generally the word _smart _has always been preceded by 'too' and followed by 'for your own good.'

"Thank you," he says anyway. His uncle makes a face and bats his hands, like Mike's words are buzzing flies, and then immediately deflates the grudging compliment by saying, "So what do you want to go and do a fool thing like this for?"

He blinks.

"California," Uncle Robert reminds him. "It's a mistake."

The words are rock-sure and certain, devoid of even the slightest vein of doubt. Mike could talk this thing out for hours, explain every one of his reasons until he turned blue in the face…and it wouldn't matter one bit in the end. Because his uncle has already made up his mind. Strength of character, people call that.

Some people.

"Well, actually, if you check on the map, I think you'll find that California's a state, not a mistake," Mike says. He makes sure to smile, carefully, deliberately mild.

His uncle makes a sound in the back of his throat, but continues on, with bulldog tenacity. "Stay here, get a job, work hard…in a couple of years, you could – you could _be_ somebody," he says. It sounds like it physically hurts him to give voice to this kind of unbridled positivity.

Mike considers it. "I guess I'm not going to just disappear when I get to California. Last I heard, they've got jobs over there too."

Uncle Robert eyes him. "Well, you're set on it – I can see that." He sounds more comfortable now that the conversation has steered away from all that limp-wristed flattery. "It's your mother I feel sorry for. She had real hopes for you."

Mike has to shake his head in admiration. No wonder Uncle Robert's been struggling so to build him up – he's always been better at tearing a body down. Why – look right here. Ripped to pieces in thirteen economical words…that's gotta be some sort of record.

But Mike closes his eyes and determinedly stitches himself back together. See, sure he could stay here in Texas and maybe even be _somebody_…

…the only problem is, he wants to be _himself._

* * *

"California," his cousin May muses, leaning against the door of his bedroom. Her mouth twitches. "What do you want to go there for?"

"Why does anyone go anywhere?" he asks, a little short. He keeps his attention focused on his packing. "To see someplace new."

"So you're going to California just to 'have a look around,'" May says, grin sliding sly through her words, like it's the stupidest thing she's ever heard. She's younger than him, but she's already engaged to Dwight Aiken, who she met the very first day she started school.

He can sense her eyes on him, making him feel like he's a pane of glass. "Let me guess – you're bringin' your guitar along too."

He doesn't say anything.

"Well, let me tell you something – if you plan on singing for your supper, you're gonna starve to death." She laughs. "Why even bother going? You'll come running back here with your tail between your legs in no time."

"Maybe. Maybe not," Mike says.

"You think you're gonna make it big out there? Skinny beanpole like you with a guitar around his neck?"

"You almost got it right," he tells her, still staring down at his suitcase.

"Oh – what part'd I get wrong?"

He finally looks her square in the eye, because there's no point prevaricating with someone he's known almost all his life. He might as well _be_ a pane of glass to her.

"I don't _think _it." That beating thing in him that urges him onward doesn't feel like wishy-washy _thinking. _It's a whole lot more certain than that. It has to be.

May doesn't look impressed. "Uh-huh? So you're the next big thing – guaranteed?"

"Well, it's either that, or the alternative," Mike says. He holds her gaze and makes sure not to blink.

"Which is?"

_Stay here. Stay here and marry Betsy Aiken and buy a house down the street from her brother and his cousin and live a colorless, flat life, smudged with other people's fingerprints._

"Starve to death," he says, and shuts his suitcase. Do or die. Sink or swim.

The smile lifting the corners of her mouth doesn't even waver. Not for a second. "Well…I know which one I got my money riding on."

* * *

His Aunt Kate is the most accepting. "California, huh?" Her voice crackles down the telephone line. "Well…it might do you some good to get the place out of your system."

He feels…disappointed. He shouldn't, but he does. "It's California, Aunt Kate – not bad clams."

"So it is," his aunt says. "And you're a good boy – I don't think it'll do you any harm. You'll get by."

It's something. Not much, but something. He tangles his fingers in the telephone cord and twists it tight round his fingers.

"I said I'd let you know, since you won't be seeing me around from now on. But then, you weren't really seeing me around before" – Texas is a big place, and even if it feels like it, not everyone lives in Mike's pockets. "Well, now that I've told you, I guess that's that. So…so long and all."

He readies himself to hang up when his aunt's voice crackles suddenly down the line again. "All right, Mike," she says, "But just remember…I never said that _California _was the place you needed to get out of your system."

* * *

When it comes time to finally leave, Uncle Robert doesn't show up. "No point," he says. "It's a waste of time. The boy'll be back here in no time flat."

His cousin May comes, but it's not due to some newfound bigness of heart, given that she only stays five minutes before skipping off, saying, "I've got some other things to do." And, like the blithe twist of a knife, "Anyway, I'm sure I'll see you soon."

That leaves him and his mother – who stands there, carefully, gamely smiling, and all of a sudden, he feels fiercely grateful to her. Because she doesn't like it, any more than anyone else – given the choice, she would've gone for the suit and tie and the steady job and Betsy Aiken and grandkids and _stability – _but she's never once tried to stop him or talk him out of it.

So he can't help it, the words come out in a grateful, reassuring tumble, "Listen – I know you're not sold on this whole thing yet, but…don't worry, ma. I'm gonna – I'm gonna make out okay. Better'n okay. I'm gonna be a big success – I promise." He catches her hands in his and bends down a little, so he's looking straight into her eyes. "Why, one of these days, someone's gonna ask you, and you'll be able to say, 'My son's Mike Nesmith, you know – _Mike Nesmith_, the famous musician.'"

He smiles at her and she nods – then, like she can't help it, she pulls him in close and tight, and whispers hot into his ear, "You know you can come back home, right? Whenever you – want to."

He has to pull away at that, so he can pretend that the distance between them is just physical, because…

_Sink or swim._

_Do or die._

"Yeah, ma. I know," he says, real soft.

* * *

Texas was hot and tough, like a leathery, overcooked steak, where California's sunny and sweet, like orange juice. It's not _perfect, _of course, because people are people everywhere – but then, Mike's always preferred his orange juice with a little bit of pith, anyway.

And California _is_ easier. Easier doesn't mean _easy, _he knows, but he can work with that. California's got more bend to it, more give than Texas. He can breathe there, and the only expectations he carries on his shoulders are his own.

He scouts out the clubs and local dives, and that's how he meets the others. It's not exactly glamorous, because the clubs are full of hungry young musicians, slinking around in the shadows and snapping at the barest possibility of a gig when it's dangled in front of them.

Hanging around the edges of crowds in sticky-floored clubs, he meets Micky's eyes so often he feels like a night hasn't really happened unless it's corroborated by the amused twist of Micky's mouth. They check each other out between songs and after sets – quick glances, an indifferent shrug of the shoulders (_I could do better than that)_, an assessing purse of lips _(not bad)_, an impressed raising of eyebrows _(hey, these guys have really got something)_.

It's like they've got this semaphore based on smiles and looks and tilts of the head. But once or twice Micky just flat-out grins at him. He starts by letting his mouth curve soft and small, before the smile overwhelms his whole face, like he can't keep it in. It's a kid's smile – a crazy trumpet blast of pure enjoyment. Every time, it makes Mike smile back, before he has to duck his head and grin down at the table.

Whenever this happens, he knows with a bass-line certainty that one of these days, they're gonna cut through the crowd and meet each other for real. It's only a matter of time.

With Peter, it's different. When he sits down next to Mike it doesn't take more than a couple of sentences to see that Peter's the kind of person his Uncle Robert would refer to as, "Ten kinds of fool rolled into one."

But he stares up at the stage attentively, and he taps his fingers on the table to the beat of every song, like he doesn't even realise he's doing it, and Mike thinks that there's a better word for what his Uncle Robert meant, and that word is – _different._

His Uncle's voice comes back clear and strong and dismissive. _"Dumb's dumb – no matter how you dress it up."_

Mike narrows his eyes and thinks defiantly that even if someone _is _"ten kinds of fool rolled into one" – well, by Mike's lights, that's a _bargain_. His Uncle Robert's much older than Peter – and he's only ever managed to be one type of fool in the whole entirety of his life.

He turns to Peter and strikes up a conversation.

And then, without quite understanding how it happens, a couple of nights later he and Peter are listening to Davy explain why the dark-haired daughter of the club owner just spilled her drink all over Peter and then ran off in tears. Davy finishes by saying, " – so, like I've told you, she's really in a fix. What do you think we should do?"

His brown eyes fix on Mike's, full of earnest valor, while Peter alternates between staring at Davy and shooting expectant looks at Mike. It _does _sound like Hilary, the club-owner's daughter, is in a bind, but Mike still attempts to clarify that he and Peter had only wanted an explanation…not this – chivalric invitation.

_We. _What do you think _we _should do?

He figures, from the troublesome niggle in the pit of his stomach, as well as Peter's frown, that it's a lost cause, but he opens his mouth anyway. But he doesn't get any further than clearing his throat, because all of a sudden, Micky drops down into the seat next to him, looks around at the others, and asks, "So, what's happening?" as if they've all known each other for years.

Then he aims that peculiar, arresting smile at Mike – and abruptly it hits him. The four of them are already ankle-deep in their first adventure.


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: Should probably have mentioned this story is mostly based on the little conversation Mike and Peter have in 'Hillbilly Honeymoon. Concrit gratefully accepted :)

* * *

With Peter, it's easy. Peter's working his way through the world without any protective layers – like a kid wandering out in a rainstorm without a coat. Thanks to his years in Texas, Mike's got more armor than an armadillo, so all he can do is look at Peter with equal parts exasperation and fascination.

Peter wouldn't last five days in Texas. But then again…

An image of his mother flashes across Mike's mind, just standing, the way she does, shoulders up, perpetually tensed -

…maybe Peter would.

He wouldn't belong there of course, and he'd get dried up and wither into a husk of the person he used to be in no time at all…but maybe, in spite of all that, he could last it.

Some people do.

Mike's just glad Peter'll never get the chance to find out, most likely.

So he's kind to the guy, because if there's one thing Texas has taught him, it's that if someone's sweeter and more trusting than the average, then the very last thing a person ought to do, is trample them into the dirt.

Besides, Peter _plays. _Better than that – he's downright fluent in Music…the very same language that Mike speaks. Maybe that sounds a little obvious, but Mike's found that even here, in California, where a bunch of people play instruments, and some of them even play them well…that's still no guarantee that they speak a solitary note.

So, together, it's no surprise that he and Peter get this harmony going.

With Davy…it takes a little longer. Davy plays too (well…the maracas) – and he sings. Peter gets him going one night, and Mike has to admit, he sounds good. More than that, his voice _fits _with them. It almost irritates Mike, because that club-owner's daughter looks at Davy like he hung the moon, and whenever Hilary sits down with them, Davy's fingers lace with hers almost absently. As far as Mike can see, for a beginner Davy Jones has got a real knack for Music, but no bones about it, his first language is Love.

At least, that's what he thinks until the whole business with the racketeers and the club is sorted out, and Hilary and her father decide that Malibu's got too many bad memories and move back to Phoenix. They all help her father get the trailer loaded up and hitched to the car, and when it comes time to leave, Hilary looks at Davy with this wobbly smile and tears in her eyes, and he doesn't look much better…

…but he touches her cheek and lets her go.

Afterwards, Mike feels compelled to say something, because even if Davy's just fooling around with this whole Music business – Mike likes him. He can't help it – Davy just radiates likeability.

"Hilary was a – she was a nice girl," he says later that day, a little inadequately, as he accompanies Davy to the store.

"Yeah," Davy says. It's just one word, but that's all it takes. Davy's so obviously hung up on her, his voice sounds just like a dial tone, and Mike can't stop himself from saying, "You coulda asked her to stay. Or followed her."

As far as he can see, Davy's got nothing keeping him in California – plus he's got the kind of charm that's acceptable currency just about anywhere.

Davy darts a sidelong look at him and says, "I still haven't got the vocals right on that new song you showed me."

Mike frowns. "The new – _that's_ why you're staying?"

Davy shrugs and says, lightly, "It's not like Micky's gonna sing lead on all our songs."

_**We. **_

_What do you think __**we **__should do?_

It hits him then that Davy's been speaking Music this whole time – Mike just never realized it until now. Maybe the accent threw him off.

As for Micky…well, Micky's the simplest of all.

Mike doesn't even need to think about where _he_ fits in – he's the drums, the pulse, the backbone of the whole operation…and he's the voice, too. See, Micky grew up in Los Angeles…he _is _California, and everything Mike's spent his whole life waiting for – sunny and sweet, and with just enough pith to make him real.

* * *

The four of them move in together. It makes sense, no matter what way you slice it. It cuts down on cost, and it increases the amount of rehearsal time they have.

The landlord shows them around 1334, this ramshackle beach-house, and announces, "Boys – you can't afford_ not_ to rent this place!"

"Oh, that's a relief," Peter tells him. "Because we weren't sure we could afford _to _rent it!"

Mr Babbitt doesn't seem to hear him, and continues in grandiose style. "This house is a steal!"

Micky looks interested. "A steal, huh? How'dja fit it in your bag?"

It's funny. Even though Mr Babbitt's endorsement of the house is so passionate it makes his ears ring, and his mother's voice in his head is the faintest whisper – she almost drowns Mr Babbitt out completely when she says, soft and low, and with that hint of a sigh behind every word, "It's…not quite the sort of place I would've picked for you, Mike."

He has to close his eyes for a second before he turns to face Mr Babbitt, and says, decisively, "We'll take it."

* * *

Davy and Peter end up in the downstairs bedroom, and Micky and Mike get the upstairs. Everything just falls into place as easily as that.

Mike thinks that's good, because even though Micky likes Peter, sometimes exasperation makes his jokes skate a little too close to mean. Anyway, in Mike's experience, you shouldn't room a white rabbit with a mad March hare. It's not fair to the rabbit.

Besides, Micky doesn't just need mindless appreciation – sometimes he needs someone to steady him, balance him out a little bit, and Mike guesses he can do that. From the way Micky smiles at him when they move their stuff upstairs (that slow secret curve bursting into a full-fledged grin), he figures Micky's got a similar mindset about the whole thing.

They're there a week when they book their first gig. They're set to play at the Coconut Grove, a replacement act for the group the manager _really_ wanted to hire, but couldn't reach.

"I musta left a thousand messages. I called by their place. I even hired a psychic to track them down…_nothing,_" the Davy-sized manager frets.

"Well, don't worry, Mr Tootley-Oswald," Mike reassures him. "We're gonna play our hearts out for you."

"We might even play some of our livers and spleens," Micky agrees. He grins at Mr Tootley-Oswald and assures him, "The Monkees don't hold anything back."

"Oh boys…it's not that I doubt your _commitment_," he says, patting both Peter and Davy on the arms, "Just your talent."

Mike can feel it fizzing up in his blood, the drive to prove Mr Tootley-Oswald and his whole damn club wrong, and looking around at the others, he can see their faces are set along similar determined lines.

"Well then," Mike says, "Let's show this crowd what we're made of."

Except they never get the chance to, because ten minutes before they're due to go on, The Bone Yard Dogs show up, full of apologies and excuses (broken answering machine, malfunctioning doorbell, psychic flatline).

Mr Tootley-Oswald almost collapses from relief. "Oh thank goodness! Look what you boys almost reduced me to!" and he gestures toward The Monkees.

And that's the end of their first gig – written off before they have the opportunity to play a single note.

Understandably, this casts a shroud over the rest of the night. Depressed, they make their way home and unpack their instruments in almost-silence. They can hardly meet each other's eyes. A couple of mumbled excuses later and everyone's heading for bed on leaden feet.

It isn't until they're upstairs that Micky breaks the pall by saying, wryly, "Talk about a night to forget."

Mike manages to dredge up a small smile at that. "Yeah. That's for sure." Tomorrow morning, things will look better. He hopes. It'd be hard for them to look worse.

Micky goes very still for a moment, before abruptly, his head tilts and this look spreads across his face that's this mixture of amused and daring. He steps forward, too close. "Of course," he says, "We _could_ always turn it into a night to remember."

"What're you talking about?" Mike asks. His heart trips in his chest.

But Micky steps even closer, and places one hand on Mike's waist. Warm. _Deliberate_. "No?" he asks.

Mike moves back, clumsy and startled by how upfront Micky is being. "What're you" –

"Come on – you_ know_," Micky says. Even now, his eyes meet Mike's, unabashed. He shrugs, "But it's okay if it's not your scene. Just forget it."

"Forget it?" Mike repeats. He knows the script for this sort of thing (the hard-headed, fist-thumping Texan version), but it's difficult to work up to the appropriate indignation. He tries, but shock keeps deflating his outrage. "Forget it? You – you come along and…and do a thing like that, and I'm supposed to just _forget_ it?"

"It's no big thing," Micky says. His words come out readily enough, but Mike gets the feeling they're a tad more considered and careful than usual. "At least – it doesn't have to be."

_If you don't let it be, _goes unspoken.

Except…

It _is_ a big thing. It can't _not _be a big thing, even in California – and Micky ought to _know_ that already. Mike does, and he's fresh off the hay-cart.

"I asked. You said no. It's not your scene – hey, that's just how it goes, sometimes," Micky tells him, and he sounds like he actually buys it himself.

"Just how it goes," Mike repeats, disbelievingly. "Do you – are you even listening to yourself?"

Micky doesn't say anything, and Mike shakes his head, unable to drop it. "So I'm supposed to – what? Just say, 'Sorry, man, it's not my scene,' like…like it's just…" He stops. "Not my sc – what in the world would ever make you think I'd be into that kind of thing?"

Micky holds his eyes for a second, reminding him of all those nights in darkened clubs, keeping tabs on each other, trading smiles and appraising glances. And how, no matter how close and crowded it got, he always knew, with unerring accuracy, exactly where Micky was. His heart spasms in his chest, and it feels like the balance in the room has suddenly shifted.

But Micky doesn't press his advantage – just says, with a hint of a rueful grin, "Blind optimism. Mostly."

It makes Mike mad, so mad that it's hard to make his mouth even shape the words, because this thing's _straight up, for real, _and Micky's not taking it anywhere near seriously enough. He laughs, harshly. "Man, you – you're just _looking _to get beat up."

Micky looks up at the ceiling and points out, "That's not _exactly_ what I'm after."

"Well, it's exactly what you're going to _get_, if you ask the wrong person," Mike says, uncompromisingly blunt.

Micky shifts his gaze away from the ceiling. After all that, the corners of his mouth still curve upwards a little. "It's a good thing I'm not asking the wrong person then, isn't it?"

He raises his eyebrows at Mike, and Mike has to look away, because his eyes are amused, but kind of hard, too. There's a 'take no bullshit' forthrightness to them. If this is how he acts in this kind of situation, Mike doesn't know how he's lived this long and somehow avoided getting beat to flinders.

If he _has_ avoided it, that is.

"Man – you say that…you say anything _like_ that to the wrong person and – and all of a sudden, we're a three man band," Mike continues, dogged, even if the words seem to echo hollowly in their room.

Micky considers him for a moment. "Then I think I've got the perfect solution," he says, face ridiculous with a manufactured, gee-willikers kind of earnestness. It's maybe then that Mike realizes that Micky's just…undentable, and there's no way of forcing him to take this seriously, if he doesn't want to.

He takes a step closer. Mike tenses, but Micky lays a hand on his arm like he doesn't notice. "If you're so worried about it, maybe you oughta throw yourself on the sword. You know – for the sake of the band."

It's a joke, of course it is, except…except it makes Mike think that maybe Micky's got some kind of strategy when it comes to this stuff after all. It's only a mockery, of course, but it makes his stomach turn that Micky'd lay that kind of line on _him_.

But then…maybe it's fair, since it wasn't like he'd been one hundred percent honest with Micky either. Because the way they'd been looking at each other since the very beginning – well, he could dress those glances up all he liked with fancy, frilly intent…

"No," he says, through the sour taste in his mouth.

Micky shrugs, a very little. "Just a suggestion," he says brightly, withdrawing his hand. Immediately, Mike's arm shoots out, fingers wrapping around Micky's awkwardly.

…but what those looks all boiled down to in the end was – naked awareness.

And he knows that.

He's known it right from the start, even if he was real careful to tuck that knowledge away in the bottom drawer of his mind without examining it too close. But Micky's called his bluff, and Mike's never been very good at pretending.

"_No_," he says again, with a shake of his head. He doesn't release his grip on Micky.

Micky tilts his head to the side, studying Mike. He doesn't seem particularly sympathetic, or particularly worried – even though Mike's fingers are squeezing his pretty hard by now. He just keeps looking at Mike, eyebrows slightly raised, with calm, almost-serious eyes. Mike looks back, because…

Because…

Because even if Mike's got all of Texas trying to pull him back (and he can practically feel Uncle Robert's hand on his collar) –

– _honesty's better_.

Not perfect, not easy, and not even comfortable. But – better. He didn't come all the way to California to lie to himself.

Not for convenience. ("_You know, Dwight says California's just full of the __**strangest**__ people. Regular weirdos. But…I guess you must know all about __**that**__. Since you're moving there and all.")_

Not for protection. ("_You know what some people might call that? That hat of yours? An affectation. You know what that is? It's something queers do_.")

And not – not even for love. ("_It's – not quite…what I was thinking of, for you.")_

He uses his hand, the one gripping Micky's, to haul him in. It's awkward, because it means his arm is in the way, kind of a barrier, keeping them apart even as he pulls Micky closer. He wraps his other hand around the back of Micky's neck, and because he's committed himself to this, he doesn't allow himself to hesitate for even a second, just mashes their lips together.

His teeth scrape against Micky's bottom lip – but Micky doesn't seem to mind, pressing back, opening his mouth without hesitation and twining himself around Mike like ivy. The fingers of his left hand (the one Mike's still fot a grip on) slide under the cuff of Mike's shirt, stroking – an unexpected hint of sweetness that just about undoes him.

For all that, it's not tender. It can't be – Mike can't _let _it be. Not when it's just as much vendetta as it is courtship. If queers fuck, well then, that's what he does. No excuses, no prevarications – and no way back. He flat-out goes for it, wrestling Micky over to the bed and down, hot and clumsy with a mixture of anger and want.

Micky's lean and flat and strong-jawed and narrow-hipped and _not quite _Betsy Aiken, and Mike probably isn't doing so hot considering it's his first time and he's running on a mixture of white-hot defiance and instinct. But Micky doesn't object and Mike guesses that's how it works when you're into this kind of scene – you have to take whatever you can get.

_It's just – not quite what I would have wanted for y– _

He hauls his own clothes off with awkward fingers, eyes fixed on Micky as he does the same. Micky unbuttons his shirt, wriggles out of his pants, and lies back on the bed with a crazy, face-stretching grin, and suddenly Mike wants to slow things down a little – just put a palm on Micky's ribcage and feel him breathe in.

Except he can't – because it's not like that, or it _can't_ be like that, not when he's hell-bent on confirming every narrow-minded prejudice he's ever picked up on back home. So he stays focused, fights the urge to get distracted by the clean lines of Micky's body, or the warmth of his mouth.

It comes as a surprise then, when Micky suddenly pushes up, rolling them over (and almost off) the narrow bed. He looks down at Mike, now pinned underneath him, and Micky's hands press down on his shoulders. "No?" he asks, almost casually, but there's a trace of mockery in his smile. Maybe Micky's got his own things to prove.

Mike just blinks up at him, thrown, and Micky considers him for several moments before deciding, "Okay," with a shrug. He flops back onto the bed. It's strange, though – when Mike leans over him, and Micky grins up, shoulders relaxed and legs coming up without hesitation to wrap around Mike's hips…

…Mike can't help but feel that somehow, without even trying, Micky's done a better job of defying expectations than he has.

Afterwards, in the dark, he says aloud, "I didn't do it for the band." He doesn't have to say it – he knows Micky's too smart to buy an obvious crock like that. But he doesn't want Micky to think for even a second that _he _believes it – that he's like any of the deluded desperates Micky's had in his bed before. He doesn't want Micky to laugh at him.

He presses his forehead against Micky's cheek, voice half-muffled by the pillow underneath. "And you can do me, next time."


	3. Chapter 3

Later, much later, and more than once, he asks Micky, like a kid asking for a bedtime story. Micky must think so too, because while Mike runs a thumb across the tender crease of his inner elbow, he lays out his sex life with a flourish, like a winning hand in poker, clearing his throat and always beginning, with sonorous gravity, "Once upon a time, there was a boy called Micky…"

It's so far from shame it qualifies as downright ostentatious, and Mike has to shake his head and hide his grin in Micky's shoulder.

Of course, the stories aren't exactly 'happily-ever-after' fodder – if they're fairy-tales at all, they're the ugly, uncivilized kind with dirt under their fingernails. Despite the fact that Micky tells them with a brazenness that tips into gleeful, mostly what Mike gleans from him is that certain clubs aren't likely to be patronized by Prince Charming, and that public bathrooms are full of frogs wearing wedding rings.

He still asks, He doesn't even know if half of what Micky tells him is true, because Micky tosses in so many crazy, off-the-wall details that sometimes his stories read about as factual as one of Pinocchio's yarns.

But at the end of the day, he figures there's just enough truth sandwiched between the thick layers of strangeness to give an uneasy flavor to what would've been simple titillation otherwise (yeah, that's there…he won't deny it. Though, he thinks, not so much for the grimy, seedy encounters themselves, as the image of Micky, standing wild and audacious at the centre of everything).

" – and the next morning he skips out on me. No money. No motor. Had to hitch all the way back from the motel," Micky finishes, but his smile twists what could be a straightforward cautionary tale. "Some 'brother', huh?"

Mike can't help it – and it's dumb, he knows that, because Micky's…Micky's done all right, all things considered. He's still _here_, isn't he? He's made it through, relatively unscratched, younger than Mike and yet way hipper to the whole scene than he could ever be. But still, Mike hears the stories – he _asks _for the stories – and beneath the irreverent 'Boys Own Adventure' kind of tone Micky takes, there's something else. Something that twangs right through his chest…anger on Micky's behalf at every lowlife who's ever eyed him up in a club or restroom and hustled him into a stall or a cheap motel room, only to haul off and leave him stranded by the side of the road, after.

It's…provincial, is what it is, because Micky sure doesn't seem cut up about it, and it's not like he didn't end up using every last one of them right back. But he can't help it – it's always got to him, the way people can sell a person short. Then, when you add in that same someone selling _himself _short, well, it's no surprise it hits him hard in the gut. Micky's worth more than that.

So he strokes a finger down Micky's arm, and says, soft, "Doesn't seem like you've had much luck with the whole thing. Sounds like you got a regular love-em-and-leave-em parade going."

Micky stays real still for a second, before sitting up, pulling away. He studies Mike with unreadable eyes, and says, "Not exactly. There was this one guy…older. Afterwards, he wanted to take me home. His place."

Mike frowns, because the answer is in the way Micky tells it. "And you went?" He tries not to let his disapproval through in his words. Because well, Micky's here, isn't he? So it all must've worked out okay.

Micky shrugs. "I figured, worst came to worst, I could always outrun him."

It's flippant, but true – Micky's wild, but he's got a healthy streak of self-preservation too. He'd have to have, to come out of the whole scene as unscuffed as he has. Mike has come to realize that that's not completely down to sheer, dumb luck.

"Anyway," he says. "We get there, and it's nice. Real nice" – he adopts an exaggerated, clipped tone and says, "Wall to wall chartreuse carpet, artfully accented with medium-blue furnishings, state-of-the-art kitchen with enameled steel cabinets and modern appliances," his hands describe shapes in the air, "a spiral staircase leading to the master bedroom, decorated in shades of…" he stops. "Actually, I never got that far."

"You didn't?"

Micky shakes his head. "No. He starts talking, about how he'd like to make this a regular thing, and I can even stay at his pad – it's no trouble, and hey, those clothes look kind of shabby, and he wouldn't mind laying out for some new threads, if I wanted…"

"Provided that _you_ didn't mind laying out for _him_?" Mike surmises.

Micky shakes his head. "I don't think it was that. He seemed pretty straight-up about it…just…he sat there, like he was waiting for me to thank him. Not like," his mouth tilts up irrepressibly at the corners, "More like – he was expecting me to fall all over him for making the offer. Like he wanted me to beg him to make it happen."

He looks at Mike. "But I wasn't going to act all grateful to him – and there was no way I was going to beg for it." Micky's lips curve into a full, shameless smile, as he confides, like it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, "He wanted to make me breakfast, too."

Mike takes this in slowly. "Maybe he just wanted to help." Because somewhere in that sea of self-interested strangers, there had to be at least one person who stepped back and saw _Micky – _his motor-mouth and his motor-mind, his relentless, exhausting humor, his resilience. His – daring.

Man, Mike'd clocked all those things in that first half-second meeting of their eyes, across the crowded floor of _The Cascades. _And that wasn't a well-lit club, by any stretch of the imagination.

"Nah," Micky says, dismissively, and it takes Mike a minute to remember what they were talking about. "If he wanted something real, he wouldn't have been asking someone he figured needed a hand-out. He would've gone looking for someone on his own level." His eyes meet Mike's as he says, "Getting ditched in a Motel 6, it's not exactly a dream come true but…at least that's _honest. _All that stuff that guy was trying to sell me – the breakfast, the pad…the _niceness_…man, I could spot how phony it was from a mile away."

Mike agrees…well, at least in theory. He's always preferred hard, thorny truths over the easy, marshmallowy party-line.

Except. He'd have bought Micky breakfast, just based on that first look. Nothing else. He doesn't know what kind of a pathetic phony that makes him.

* * *

Micky asks _him_, just once. Well, it's not like he needs to ask more than that. He finishes one of his crazy, disturbing anecdotes, with a final flourish of his hands, then nudges Mike's shin with his big toe. "How about you?" he asks, doing a pretty good job of hiding his curiosity. "What did you do in Texas?"

"I played the guitar," Mike says, brusquely, because he feels downright gauche, greener than grass – and being completely naked while having this conversation isn't helping any. Micky might have a full house when it comes to debauchery - but all Mike's got is a lousy pair of twos.

"For real?" Micky asks. He doesn't answer, and he can feel Micky's eyes on the top of his head. Eventually, he says, "Well, you coulda fooled me."

It's maybe meant to be one of those double-edged compliments, but the tone's off, and Mike can't take it as anything other than straight-up consolation. It almost rankles, how much it eases his mind…

…so maybe it is double-edged after all.

* * *

And once, just once, Mike brings _them_ up. It's maybe a faux-pas…from the sounds of things, it didn't seem like Micky and any of his past paramours were having heart-to-hearts in those bathroom stalls and motels, but…well – it's not like Mike has all that experience to go on. He's just got _this_ – and maybe that would've been enough, if he didn't know from Micky himself that he's not a big fan of encores and repeat performances.

So, he doesn't know what all this screwing makes them – other than queer, that is.

And, naked, again, and in Mike's narrow bed, again, he says, "So, this…" and waits.

Micky's eyes flick to him. "What about it?" he asks. He sounds friendly, unconcerned, like he's never given it a second thought. Mike doesn't let that deter him. It's not like Micky doesn't already know how raw he is. "What does it mean?" he asks bluntly. "What're we doing here?"

"Okay," Micky says, but then follows it up with, "You want a diagram? Or maybe...a demonstration?"

Mike catches his hands and pushes them back. "Maybe I don't mean 'what.' Maybe what I mean is…_why_?"

Micky doesn't answer right away, and when he does, his words ease out with that unfamiliar carefulness that makes Mike twitch. "Because…we both like this. And – why not? It's…convenient."

"Convenient?" Mike repeats.

Micky shrugs. He runs a finger along Mike's chest and Mike tries not to let that distract him. "You're here. I'm here. We've got this place…"

"So what you're sayin' is, this is the fucking version of 'all mod cons,'" Mike says slowly, attempting to pin him down.

Micky grins. "Hey, I'd rather have this than a refrigerator."

"That's easy to say," Mike tells him. "It's not like ours ever has anything in it, anyway."

It's an answer, and for that, he lets Micky roll him over and pin him down on the rumpled sheets. It's not his fault it wasn't the answer Mike wanted. It's the one he expected, really. He's always figured this whole queer thing was mostly about taking what you can get, anyway. How can it not be, when from what he can see, it all comes down to secret hang-outs and furtive restroom handjobs?

Add to that the fact that Micky'd never seemed that all-fired eager to hustle him into some bathroom stall or alley, back when they'd been making eye-contact like the new time across crowded club floors…well, that just cements things in his mind. Convenient. That's what this thing is.

It's not a comfortable realization, and he's got all these echoing voices in his head, prodding him -

"_If **I** were you, I don't think I could stand it. Dwight sure couldn't, but then, he's a real man…and I suppose you're just one of those…**accommodating **souls…"_

"_Well, boy, I never thought you'd amount to much…but I would've pegged you as more than just some California queer's sure thing. Guess that was my mistake."_

"_It's just…not quite…how I would've pictured you, Michael…"_

But at the end of the day, if queers use each other and take what they can get – well, then, Michael guesses he can do that too. And if what he can get is _Micky_, then who's to say he's the one getting the raw end of the deal here?

It's not like he could afford to buy Micky fancy breakfasts and new clothes anyway, even if Micky wanted him to. Even if _he_ wanted to.


End file.
